


That Four-Letter Word

by Pygmy Puff (ppuff)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And apparently Aziraphale too, Footnotes, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Or at least that's what Crowley believes, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-25 15:10:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2626277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ppuff/pseuds/Pygmy%20Puff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A car accident left Aziraphale soundly knocked unconscious. Inside the used bookstore as he waits for the angel to wake, Crowley ponders what Aziraphale has come to mean to him.</p><p>Updated with Chapter 2: A companion piece from Aziraphale's POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crowley

"Stupid, stupid, Crowley! Really, how dumb can you be? It's like you've never driven a single day in your life."

In the empty street leading up to the used bookstore, no one is around to notice a distraught man* carrying an unconscious body in his arms, muttering to himself as he walks. In fact, no one is around to notice a crunched up Bentley's sad encounter with a lamppost just a few paces away. It is better this way, for the totaled car seems to need a moment to itself before it can come to its senses and make nice with the pole. By the time the two strange men (no sign of blood on either of them) enter the bookstore, the Bentley seems to have calmed down and stretched out a bit in its attempt to pull away from the unmoving pole.

-

Crowley deposits Aziraphale onto the couch in the back room as carefully as he can manage, which is to say, not gently at all, but it's the best that he can manage. Aziraphale doesn't stir. "Angel?" he calls, half expecting blue eyes to open to greet him in confusion. But there is nothing, and nothing is all Crowley can do as he sinks to the floor. Keeping vigil by bedsides isn't one of his specialties—that's a job for angels, dammit!—but the only angel in the room is out cold, all thanks to his insistence on playing around with the dials of his car radio (really, did he expect anything other than _Queen_ to be blaring after leaving the tape in the car for so long?) and not noticing the lamppost he was driving into. Aziraphale had shouted. He doesn't remember what. All he remembers is raising his head when it was too late, and the only thing he could do was to place an arm across the angel before his stomach got punched by a metal bat (or maybe that was the steering wheel digging into him). By the time he can hear sounds again, he was already overcome with panic, because no amount of calling and shouting could elicit a response from Aziraphale.

And now he's left with an unconscious angel inches away from him. Aziraphale isn't breathing, doesn't need to, and Crowley wishes for once that heavenly beings would need to breathe for survival so he can have some sort of a visual cue that his angel is okay. He's too distraught to try to reason things out logically, but even in his cottoned mind he knows that, of course, Aziraphale will be okay. He's immortal. Immortals don't die, least of all from a stupid car crash. _Can't_. But still…

He looks at his angel—gold hair and peaceful face—really looks. Is this what happens to humans sitting next to loved ones in the hospital, helpless and defenseless against the tidal wave of thoughts that assault their minds? Something is forming inside him, a _feeling_. It's not exactly like having his gut invaded by the steering wheel, but it's still some sort of hurt, a different kind of pain. Is this what worry feels like? But he's been worried before, always mixed with panicked anticipation whenever Hell would hijack his car radio to give him orders. No, this is… different. It's as if his innards has sucked on something sour and is now squirming in protest; it's that and more. It's… it's a feeling _about_ someone, "feelings" linked with "Aziraphale."

And if he is honest with himself (which he's not), Crowley would admit that he's known this feeling before. It's surfaced more often lately, whenever his mind wanders to the angel, which, well, has been quite frequent. Sour doesn't completely describe it. There's sweetness too. And more so lately, a hearty dose of bitterness.

He has never been as aware of the chasm that separates them as now—the gulf that has already been set in place since that fateful day of his Fall, resulting in this separation that is never going to go away—and he aches. He hates being overcome by this foreign emotion that he dare not (cannot) give a name to. He looks at the unconscious being slouched on the couch before him and despises the peacefulness that seems to ooze out of Aziraphale's every pore. He refuses to acknowledge the tugging of his heart for what it is, that forbidden four-letter word that earthlings throw around so carelessly like cheap costumes too gaudy even for Halloween.

(Love, his mind whispers, and Crowley wonders since when has he become tainted, fallen from his Fall.)

The ache inside him deepens, weighing down his bones and spreading to the tips of his wings. He reaches a hand to touch his angel's forehead. It is hot. But his own hand feels hotter, like the flimsy cigarette lighter inside his car, glowing an angry molten red. Except _that_ burn goes away. This burn is fueled by that ache coursing through his veins and he cannot extinguish it, doesn't want to. The ache is torment. It makes him feel alive.  
  
Six thousand years of truce and negotiation and pretending he doesn't enjoy each interaction he's had with this not-enemy. A whole century of feeding ducks. Who knows? When he had slept through the nineteenth century, he may have never stopped dreaming of his angel.  
  
He smoothes a thumb over Aziraphale's forehead and shivers when the gesture elicits a sigh from the unconscious angel. He wants to do more, oh Devil below he wants to. To roam his hands like iron brands all over Aziraphale's body, searing sin into the sublime being. To lean in and place his mouth _just there_ , where crook of the neck meets shoulder and he can almost feel the strumming pulse that would be there whenever Aziraphale remembers to breathe and to have a heartbeat. Crowley would nibble and lick, like those horrible B-grade horror films starring vampires with fake fangs, but he wouldn't break the skin, no, never to leave a mark of shame on this perfect being. Or maybe he would just rest his head there and breathe in deeply—a luxury of humans, the sign of their fleeting lives—and close his eyes to imagine being back in Heaven, both a long time ago and in an impossible future, when the two of them were (will be) together, to a time before he knew (will have known) what this angel would (has) come to mean to him.  
  
But he doesn't move; his hand over the forehead has become frozen like stone. There is no _together_ , he might as well get used to it now. The Apocalypse-that-Wasn't is still fresh on his mind. Adam had bought them more time, but sooner or later, the end will come again, and he cannot bear the thought of Aziraphale not being able to join his fellow angels in heaven because of him, because of having Fallen.**  
  
And so he resigns to torment his mind with the burning ache that's growing inside him, at once clinging onto and wanting to banish the images of desire in his mind: of two bodies sliding languidly against each other; of a sweet mouth offered willingly for him to taste, to devour; of the vulnerability in those innocent, trusting eyes when his hands would spread those cheeks and Crowley would finally claim his angel, burying deep inside him...  
  
Conceivably, they have thousands of years ahead of them yet. That's a long period of time to cultivate and hold onto something precious.  
  
But not as long as eternity, and Crowley knows (the ache is now like a knife stabbing his non-existent heart), just _knows_ , that his Angel's deepest desire is a longing for Heaven, to finally be back home where there is bad music and boring ineffability,*** when he will leave Earth without a backward glance just as he will leave Crowley as if they have never spent thousands of years together, happily looking toward the future while abandoning him to his fate in the netherworld.  
  
It doesn't matter that his own deepest desire is now tied inextricably with a golden being he can never have. It doesn't matter that hell is starting early for him, sparked and ignited by that damned four-letter word into this blazing fire that is now consuming him. He palms Aziraphale's forehead like a benediction. He hurts all over. But Aziraphale is here and he is safe, so it doesn't matter.  
  
Tomorrow, Aziraphale will be well again and they will go feed ducks together. Afterwards, maybe they'll stop by the Ritz for a meal. And maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale will smile at him in exactly _that way_ that will make his insides flare up in flames. Then he can go on to believe that the redemption offered to humans is also possible for him (he will never want his angel to Fall, so it must be this other impossibility, to hope in vain for unFall), that one day, he will be allowed to enter his original home and to finally utter that forbidden word.  
  
Love.

 

\---------------------------------------------  

* If one can simply call the fury of all Hell "distraught," that is. The man's clothing is, quite literally, smoking hot. As in accidentally-putting-tin-foil-into-the-microwave, smokeshow hot. The microwave has only been recently invented, after all, and accidents abound. Invented by this very man, in fact, who got a commendation for ensuring future generations of lazy couch surfers would know only to indulge in the instant nuking of chemical food that tastes about on par as a cardboard box and as healthy as a CHOW®, MEALS®, or SNACK® bar.

** Let's face it, he's enough of a cocky bastard to believe that if he funnels all of his energy into seducing Aziraphale, he's simply that good of a tempter and will succeed.

*** To Crowley, that is. What _do_ they do all day in heaven anyway? Play harps and polish their halos? There are things he knows to never try to understand. This one ranks just about the same as what is inside sausages.


	2. Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley isn't the only one pondering over his counterpart while the other sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to do a companion piece from Aziraphale's POV. This takes place after the car crash but can otherwise be read as an independent one-shot.

"They're coming for me."

 _Terror, crumbling resolve, hopelessness, despair._ Those yellow eyes are closed, but it doesn't take much imagination to be able to see the slitted panic hiding underneath.

It takes Aziraphale many days to understand that Crowley is dreaming about the forces of hell coming after him, hunting him down for daring to stand up against Lucifer and rejecting the Apocalypse.

He wants to turn away, to block out the anguish and terror contorting that dear face, but he doesn't.

"They're going to get me!"

It takes him several more days to realize that he is in Crowley's dreams.

Aziraphale doesn't sleep and has no desire to try. If nightmares are as scary as they seem, then there is no reason for him to subject himself to such agony. But Crowley has acquired the habit of napping on his couch lately, as if he doesn't want to let a day go by without seeing him, even if "seeing" means _I'm tired, angel!_ and then _plop_ onto the couch he falls.*

"No one is coming after you, my dear. I won't let them."

Crowley's features relax and soft snores replace his whimpers. Aziraphale wonders what the dream version of himself is now saying to Crowley. Can he speak peace into this tortured soul, so insouciant and _bon vivant_ on the outside but terrified deep within? Aziraphale is not fooled. Whoever comes for him for bollocksing** up the Apocalypse would be displeased but ultimately forgiving. But whoever comes for Crowley would only signify the start of interminable punishment. There is no redemption for demons. He will be damned—he already is. The only unknown is how long this post-Not-Quite-Apocalypse reprieve will be for them both.

A sudden surge of protectiveness washes over him. _No one will harm my dear!_ Not when they have been each other's support and only friend for thousands of years. Not when just a month ago they had stood facing Lucifer, hand in hand, ready to be discorporated (or worse) as long as they got to meet their end together. Not when…

He closes his eyes.

Not when he loves him. Him. Crowley. Specifically and particularly _him_ , intense like a laser beam shooting out of his heart and straight into Crowley's. This love is giving yet possessive, selfless yet selfish. Paradoxical. Angel and demon. Light and darkness. Impossible yet inevitable.

He loves Crowley.

"Oh, my dear…"

Crowley is a demon. He is incapable of love. Aziraphale is willing to settle for the lack of animosity that has marked their relationship since the Arrangement. He may even dare to believe that Crowley likes him. After all, no one volunteers to spend time with someone they don't like, would they, even if it's just strolling into the used bookstore unannounced and flopping down for a nap?

Terrified eyes—yellow snake eyes, eyes reserved only for him—open for a second and then snap shut again. "They're coming…"

"Then let them come, dear. I will protect you," Aziraphale murmurs, promises. This promise isn't only for the sleeping being in front of him. No, each quiet word that cuts into the silence like steel is flung far Up Above and Down Below. He is a lion claiming its prey, all golden mane and flaming paws marking the dark creature he now considers his. Specifically Crowley. Particularly Crowley. No one else. In sickness and in health, in good times and bad, in Heaven and in Hell, till death do we part.

It doesn't matter that Crowley will never return his affection. It doesn't matter that when the forces of hell will finally come for his dear, Aziraphale will fight to his last breath even though he knows they will both be crushed regardless of which side reaches its traitor first. And—he shudders. It doesn't matter that if Crowley decides to, if the Serpent of Eden would only ask, his answer would always and only be yes.

He wonders if he will still be able to feel love if (when) he Falls. The thought of not loving Crowley is terrifying. But in Hell there is lust, and perhaps he will learn how to satisfy his demon, when at last he himself will become one.

But Crowley doesn't tempt him, doesn't ask. Day after day, he comes in and claims the couch and dreams of a terrible future and just lets his angel be. And Aziraphale is content to spend his days in anticipation: anticipating when the forces will come for him and Crowley; anticipating that moment when hungry lips will meet his and a body he has only beheld will be pressed against him and he will be able to _feel_ ; anticipating the Fall, if (when) he Falls, and wondering whether Crowley will meet him on the other side or simply laugh at his naivety for believing that there ever was an ounce of love and goodness inside a demon.

He doesn't like anticipation. It is too much like nightmares.

Tomorrow is uncertain, a mystery. But today, Crowley needs his protection. Today, he can silently offer him love.

He presses his lips to Crowley's forehead. The frown disappears.

"Sleep, my dear. Peace."

Tomorrow, they will go feed ducks together. Afterwards, maybe they will stop by the Ritz for a meal. And maybe Crowley will smile at him _that way_ that tells Aziraphale there may be hope after all, that somewhere inside this dark being—beyond the nightmares and the despair—there is goodness, and there is love.

 

\--------------------------------------------- 

* It was the car crash, had to be. Ever since Aziraphale recovered from that incident, Crowley has been acting very strangely. Like being _nice_ to his plants, obeying the speed limit, not tripping up old ladies on their way to church strange. And what about Crowley always staring at him when he doesn't think the angel is looking? Nah… that's probably just his too-active imagination.

** Aziraphale would like to let you know that his unfortunate word choice is due to the fact that no other word can quite convey the reality of what they both did to stall the Apocalypse-that-Wasn't, thank you very much.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is inspired by Neil Gaiman's quote about the fury that fuels Terry Pratchett's writing: "And, hand in hand with the anger, like an angel and a demon walking hand in hand into the sunset, there is love."
> 
> If you haven't yet read Terry Pratchett's A Slip of the Keyboard, I highly recommend it!


End file.
